Dear Pop

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Dear Pop,

I once dreamed you were a pickle.

You didn’t start out that way, but I know why you turned into one.

Something had upset me, so you were coming for a visit.  You would stay with me and calm whatever fears I faced.  I knew that you were the only one who could make me feel better about it and you were on your way!  I felt joy about that.

As the dream progressed, my joy faded to anxiety.  Someone arrived before you and took over my home, invaded my security and edged me out.  It wasn’t anyone in particular, just a faceless authority figure who made decisions without my consent and definitely didn’t understand that I needed a spot for you to be.  I couldn’t find the words to express your importance, so I left in a panic to look for you, to tell you I had nowhere for you to stay.

I had to drive a very big car to find you.  It was hard to control, so I passed you on the street.  You stood up when you saw me and I tried to turn the car around.  The distance between us seemed to stretch and you seemed to shrink as I made my way closer.  I tried to park the car, but it was too big and cumbersome.  It distracted me from you momentarily and when I looked back, you were changing.  I became desperate to reach you.

I ditched the car and fled on foot in your direction.  When I made it to the corner where you stood, I flung myself at you for a comforting embrace, but you had turned to glass. You still had arms and you used them to hug at me, but it wasn’t satisfactory.  You had become a large jar, the type of thick, giant jar used for dill pickles at a deli.  I kept hugging you, but you couldn’t hug me.

I was holding you in my hands and then you were a pickle.  You were inside a plastic bag, covered with too much juice, sloshing and green, thrown there hurriedly by someone who didn’t take care.  You couldn’t comfort me.  I stared at you and I loved you, but I couldn’t understand how to get anything back.

And then I woke up and sobbed.

Late one evening in the week you died, I sat on the floor in our master bathroom and cried by myself.  My arms involuntarily cradled the heavy air and I rocked back and forth, aching to take care of you.  There are things I wish I’d said over the years and a few things I wish I hadn’t, but I know that you loved me.  You were a great father and a wonderful friend and I hope you knew that I felt that way.  I started this blog to talk about my life and my loss.  My best friend is woven all through my writing and so are you.  I miss you.  I miss us.  I miss who I was to you and I miss who you were to me.

One thought on “Dear Pop

  1. I hear you, sister! We had great dads who loved us often more than we loved ourselves. My dad once drove down the highway in a U-Haul with dixie cups on his ears to get me from sobbing over the boyfriend I left behind….I was 17 and he was still trying to make everything okay. I miss my dad too.

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